Catalyst
by Nothingman
Summary: No, it's not a Rentfic or something from Cats or Les Mis...but it's NEW and ORIGINAL!


(Scene opens in Stan Gruber's living room. A fireplace roars against the far wall. We see Stan sitting in his recliner and reading a book. Outside a storm rages, rain pelting the windows. We hear the doorbell ring. Stan looks up from his book.)  
  
Stan: Who the heck could that be?  
  
(Doorbell rings again)  
  
Stan: (calls out) Come in.  
  
(Silence. Stan rises from his chair slowly.)  
  
Stan: It's open!  
  
(The drumming of rain on the windows. Stan walks over to the door and, with a trembling hand, opens it. Nobody is there.)  
  
Stan: Darn kids.  
  
(Stan is about to close the door when a small gray cat stalks in. It is amazingly completely dry...)  
  
Stan: Not another stray…(Leaves to get a plate of milk from the kitchen.)  
  
Cat: Meow. (Clears throat.) Meee—ow. Me-OW. (Coughs) I'll never get used to this.  
  
(Stan returns with the milk and sets it down next to the cat. He sits down and continues reading. The cat sniffs the milk)  
  
Cat: Is this skim?  
  
(Stan looks up from his book.)  
  
Stan: Did…is that-…what…  
  
Cat: It's not a hard question Stan. I mean, either it's skim or 2%, because that's all you drink.  
  
Stan: Ohhhhhhh no. You are not real. I knew I shouldn't have had that last beer.  
  
Cat: Okay Stan, look. As soon as you admit I'm real, the sooner we can get to the point.  
  
Stan: I'm not going to talk to you. You are a hallucination brought on by alcoholic substances.  
  
Cat: (sighs) It's quite simple Stan. All I'm asking is for 2% milk.  
  
(Stan remains quiet)  
  
Cat: I can't believe this. People in Cambodia can get milk easier than me. Stupid karma.  
  
Stan: Oh, so you know about karma now? What kind of twisted dream is this?  
  
Cat: Why did I have to inherit all that money? Now look at me. No opposable thumbs, bad karma, and I have to lick myself to get clean.  
  
Stan: Why would a cat inherit money?  
  
Cat: No, no, no. I wasn't a cat then. That's why I'm going on about bad karma. You know, your actions in previous lives determine who you are in the next life?  
  
Stan: I think I'm going to go lie down.  
  
Cat: No, wait. You're the only one who can help me.  
  
Stan: Help you? Help you do what? What would a hallucinated feline need help with?  
  
Cat: All right, first off: don't call me a feline. It's not like I'm some pampered tabby cat who gets its food in a crystal dish. Secondly: I have a name you might recognize. J. Edgar Hoover.  
  
Stan: Of course. He's that one guy with the FBI.  
  
Cat: Not that J. Edgar Hoover. I'm talking about your boss from your job in high school. Remember working at that Waffle House?  
  
Stan: Ooohh…yeah. Wow. That takes me back.  
  
Cat: I'm his son.  
  
Stan: …(long pause)…Don't get me wrong. I like cats; I really do. But when they start talking and claiming to be the offspring of my first boss…  
  
Cat: No! I'm not his son…the cat isn't his son. But I am. You know, the whole karma thing.  
  
Stan: I knew those clams at Red Lobster smelled funny tonight…  
  
Cat: Okay, look. My dad owned beach-front property in Florida. I was in college when you worked for him, and it was about that time when he hit it big with his property.  
  
Stan: Yeah…I remember that. It was a couple of months before I quit.  
  
Cat: Well…about you quitting. For a while you were my personal hero. You see, when you left on your last night, you forgot to turn off one of the waffle makers. The whole place caught fire and burned down with my father inside.  
  
Stan: I'm sorry…  
  
Cat: Don't be. He was a jerk. Besides, all his money from his property came to me. After college I used my fortune to play the stock market. To make a long story short, I became a selfish jerk before I died.  
  
Stan: Thus the reincarnation as a cat through bad karma.  
  
Cat: Exactly.  
  
Stan: But how did you die so young?  
  
Cat: Look…that's not something I like to talk about…  
  
Stan: Oh wait! I remember reading it in the newspaper!  
  
Cat: Here it comes.  
  
Stan: That koala bear fell on your head at the zoo!  
  
Cat: Typical. Get hit by a marsupial once and you're marked for eternity.  
  
Stan: So what happened to all your money?  
  
Cat: Don't know, don't care. I only want you to help me.  
  
Stan: Okay…how?  
  
Cat: I want you to kill yourself.  
  
Stan: What?!  
  
Cat: You know, throw yourself over a ledge or something.  
  
Stan: Why?!!  
  
Cat: We've been over this already. But let me refresh your memory with this scenario in a nutshell: Because of you, I'm a cat. You killed my father which gave me money which gave me bad karma.  
  
Stan: Why do I have to kill myself?  
  
Cat: I need revenge somehow. If you kill yourself, it looks much better for my karma than if I kill you. Besides, how am I supposed to fire a gun or tie a noose?  
  
Stan: Good question.  
  
Cat: So, come on already. I haven't got all night.  
  
Stan: You've got to be kidding me. You're only a hallucination.  
  
Cat: What proof do you have of that?  
  
Stan: How did you ring the doorbell? You're not tall enough to reach it.  
  
Cat: I climbed up the bird feeder. By the way, you might want to take care of the dead sparrow carcass in your yard.  
  
Stan: What sparrow carcass?  
  
Cat: Hey, look buddy, I got instincts too, all right? It's not like I can suddenly become a cat who doesn't go psycho and kill things at random.  
  
Stan: Okay, I get it. But seriously, get out.  
  
Cat: Why are you trying to protect your life so much? I mean, you're sitting at home on a Friday night reading Jane Austin. Tell me that's not pathetic.  
  
Stan: It's raining. I can't go out.  
  
Cat: Oh yeah? Well, what would you be doing if it weren't raining outside?  
  
Stan: Reading Agatha Christie.  
  
Cat: Oh, give me a break.  
  
Stan: Right there is another reason you're a hallucination! It's raining outside but you aren't the least bit wet. How do you explain that?  
  
Cat: What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Besides, does it really matter anyway?  
  
Stan: Actually…no. Because I'm not going to kill myself anyway.  
  
Cat. Oh come on. Just this once?  
  
Stan: No.  
  
Cat: I see. Playing Mr. Tough Guy, huh?  
  
Stan: I'd like to think of it as a game of cat and mouse.  
  
Cat: Very clever, but pitiful none the less. Honestly, if I were you I would have prayed for this moment a long time ago.  
  
Stan: Why do you say that?  
  
Cat: You alphabetize your soup flavors in your cupboard, for crying out loud!  
  
Stan: So? I bet a lot of young men do that.  
  
Cat: Yeah. Pathetically single men who didn't do enough in college to get them anything better than a behind-the-counter job.  
  
Stan: You leave my job out of this. Besides, I don't have a behind-the- counter job.  
  
Cat: Yeah, but being a carnie really isn't a step above a counter job.  
  
Stan: I'm not a carnie! I sell the tickets for the-…hey, wait. How did you know my occupation?  
  
Cat: Listen, after you've experienced as much spiritual enlightenment as I have, you gain a clairvoyant view on things.  
  
Stan: You're a cat! How much spiritual enlightenment could you possibly have?  
  
Cat: Hey, when you lack opposable thumbs you have to rely on faith a lot to get anywhere in today's world.  
  
Stan: Get out.  
  
Cat: Whoa, hold on there Mr. Blatant. You need to fulfill your end of the bargain.  
  
Stan: Now.  
  
(Cat stays put. Stan shrugs, pulls a loose string from his sweatshirt, and dangles it in the air. Cat watches closely, and Stan throws it out the door. Cat, who unwillingly follows…)  
  
Cat: Curse you! That's not fair! I can't help it if I have instincts and you don't! (Dashes out the door, which Stan closes. As a second though, he turns the lock. Sits down and continues reading.)  
  
fine 


End file.
